Hellhound
by devilishblacksheep
Summary: Sam and Dean are hunting a hellhound. Any more and I'll give it away. Dean swears, and there's violence and gore...nothing new, right?
1. The Hunt

**I'm attempting a Supernatural fic this time…I apologize to anyone if I totally butcher it; this one has a bit of a different tactic, so I'm hoping I can actually pull it off. I don't own Sam or Dean; they are entirely the WB/CW's (God that sounded so wrong!), so no one sue me. Please.**

Hellhound

_He was running through the field as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough; the damn hellhound was catching up, and he would have to stop to make a stand eventually. He looked around, scouting for the most advantageous spot. At least his attempt to draw the thing away from Sam had worked; maybe geek boy would show up at the last second to save his ass. Probably not. He hoped not; hellhounds were a bitch to kill, and if he got himself killed, it was all over for Sammy. He crested a hill, and crouched behind a tree, praying to whatever god was listening that the hound would miss him. And it did. He breathed a sigh of relief while he checked to make sure his gun was loaded. It was. Now all he had to do was aim and – Damn it! What was Sam doing here? He was going to get himself killed! He left his hiding place, making as much noise as he could, trying to catch the hellhound's attention before it noticed Sam. "Hey, ugly!" The beast turned its massive head towards him. "Yeah, I'm talking to you!" With its shaggy coat, glowing red eyes, and the fact that its size alone put a Great Dane to shame, the hellhound could, hell, probably had, scared even the bravest guy to death. But Dean wasn't the bravest guy; he was just an average guy who did this kind of thing for a living. And if he didn't watch out, the thing he was hunting was going to eat his little brother for breakfast. Literally. He ran towards the hellhound, squeezing off rounds at it as he went. He wasn't expecting to hit it, not while running, but maybe he would actually manage to tag it, which would make his life easier when he actually reached it. But no dice. _

_When he reached it, the damn thing launched itself at him, simultaneously knocking him over and knocking the gun out of his hand. It landed just out of reach. Damn. He got the wind knocked out of him, and with the hellhound's huge paws on his chest, it was kind of difficult to breathe. "Dude, you need to get a breath mint, or use Listerine, or something, 'cause your breath _reeks_!" Unfortunately, the beast was not amused, as it began to dig its claws into him, eliciting a groan from him as it did so._

"_DEAN!" He turned his head to see Sam, standing not ten feet from him. What was he, stupid? "Sam, I've got this! Get the hell away!" Unfortunately, the hellhound chose that exact moment to dig its claws further into his chest, trying to tear him open more than he already was, which didn't help his case at all. But Sam did back up a little bit, if only to try to get a better angle to shoot it. Dean swore, and groped around on the ground, trying to reach his gun and failing. The hound decided at that moment that he was no longer a threat, and removed its paws from his chest to launch itself at Sam. It landed on him, knocking him over as it had Dean. Dean watched in horror as it began to slash at Sam with its claws, drawing blood and creating huge gashes in his flesh. "NO!" yelled Dean, getting to his feet as fast as his injuries would let him and grabbing his gun in the process. Sam began to scream, a death-scream that chilled Dean's blood. "You BASTARD! Get the hell away from my brother!" Dean yelled, emptying the chamber of his gun into the hellhound. It collapsed, bleeding from numerous holes. As Dean ran over to his brother's body, the hellhound caught on fire, and within seconds was nothing but ash. Dean knelt beside his brother, taking in the huge gashes across his torso and the puddle of blood he lay in. His own injuries were forgotten as he cradled his dead brother in his arms and wept, screaming in frustration at the unfair world he lived in. How could this have happened? _He_ was supposed to be the one lying dead here, not Sammy. He was supposed to protect him, and he had failed. _


	2. Fevered Dreams

Sam was woken up by Dean's yelling. He jumped out of bed and quickly walked over to the chair by the window where Dean had fallen asleep, grabbing a knife from the table on the way. When he got there, he glanced around the room, looking for anything that could be responsible for Dean's outburst. Satisfied that there was nothing there, he looked at Dean himself.

His older brother was thrashing around, apparently in the grips of a nightmare. This was the first Sam had heard of anything like this; usually _he_ was the one with the nightmare, while Dean slept through the night, quiet as a mouse. But here he was, yelling his head off.Sam would have to wake him up, or else the other tenants would complain about the noise. He shook him, but there was no response, other than Dean's continued yelling. Sam slapped him in the face, yelled back, and splashed him with water, all to no effect. What was he dreaming about that had him so wound up? Finally, after Sam shook him some more and called his name a few times, Dean bolted upright, causing Sam to jump back a few feet in surprise. Dean was breathing heavily, apparently terrified, and his cheeks were wet, as if he had been crying. He looked around the room, barely seeing Sam until he grabbed Dean's shoulders. "Dean, calm down, you're freaking me out."

Dean blinked blearily a few times, trying to figure out where he was. He looked at Sam, confused. "Sammy?" he said, incredulous. "But, you're dead…aren't you?"

Sam looked at him, not bothering to correct Dean on his name. Now was not the time. "Dean, you were having a nightmare. A pretty bad one, from the looks of things." Dean wiped his face with his hands, getting rid of the wetness. "So, you're not dead?"

"No Dean, I'm definitely not dead. What happened that would make you think so?"

Dean was still too much in shock from his dream to even attempt to hide behind his usual mask of confidence. "We were hunting for the hellhound, and I tried to draw it away from you, but it tore me up pretty bad and then went after you. It killed you, Sammy, I saw it. You were screaming, and there was blood everywhere and…" He stopped, looking at his hands as if he were expecting to see blood there. He shook his head. "It killed you. _I _killed you." He ended in a whisper.

"What do you mean, you killed me? I thought the hellhound did. Anyway, it probably wasn't even your fault."

"But I should have shot it earlier, when I was behind the tree. I had a clear shot, but I didn't take it. I killed you as surely as if I had shot you myself. I was supposed to protect you, and I didn't. I failed. It was my fault." He hung his head, shamed even though the event he was talking about had never even happened. Sure, they had been hunting a hellhound two ago, but Sam had shot the thing when it had Dean pinned. Sam winced inside, remembering what its claws had done to Dean's chest. He had had to sew the gashes shut after disinfecting them to make sure they didn't get infected; hellhounds were notorious for the wounds their claws inflicted, primarily because they ended up giving the victim a fever, during which the victim usually had horrible dreams about whatever they feared most. Sam had hoped that the fever would break overnight and Dean would be spared the dreams. Apparently it hadn't.

He felt Dean's forehead, attempting to determine if he still had a fever or not, but his hand got swatted away. Dean was obviously over the nightmare, or at least over it enough to go back to his usual self. "You tell anyone about this, and I'll kill you," he growled. Sam laughed; Dean was definitely back to his old self.


End file.
